Agatha Raisin The Perfect Paragon

EPILOGUE

BACK in Carsely two weeks later on a rainy weekend. Agatha felt very flat. Business was pouring into the agency, but it seemed to be nothing more than the usual lost cats, dogs and teenagers and divorce cases. No kidnapped heiresses and aristocrats wanting their jewels found. Nothing, she thought bitterly, but plod, plod, plod.

Her hip was aching more and more. She phoned up her masseur, Richard Rasdall, and made an appointment for that Saturday afternoon. She felt lonely and deflated after all the excitement. The newspaper interviews and television interviews had dried up.

She looked at the clock and realized she’d forgotten she was supposed to pick Roy Silver up from the train. He had phoned the evening before, asking if he could come on a visit.

She drove down to Moreton-in-Marsh station to find him waiting impatiently in the car park.

“I was just about to phone you,” he said.

“Sorry, Roy. I’ll leave the car and we’ll walk round the corner for a pub lunch. The boss treating you well?”

“With kid gloves, especially considering I am a friend of the famous Agatha Raisin.”

“I’m yesterday’s news now. I want comfort food. Steak and kidney pie would go down a treat.”

Over lunch, she told Roy in detail about solving the murder cases, but she seemed to have told the story so many times that she felt she was beginning to bore herself.

“Did this Mabel Smedley ever say why she employed you to find out who murdered her husband?”

Agatha scowled. “Evidently she told the police I was such an amateur I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of finding out anything and employing me would make her look innocent.”

“I was surprised not to see Charles in any of the photos.”

“Oh, he cleared off well before the end to chase after some floozy. I’ve got to go to the masseur in Stow. I’ll leave you at the cottage. Won’t be long.”

“I told you before, it does seem to me like a bit of arthritis,” said Richard. “I’m not a doctor. Take my advice and get that hip x-rayed.”

“It can’t be arthritis,” raged Agatha. “What do you know?”

“Enough,” he said calmly. “But suit yourself.”

Once the massage was over, Agatha felt much better. The masseur’s treatment room was situated above his chocolate shop, The Honey Pot. Agatha had a sudden sharp longing to reward herself with a big box of handmade chocolates, but marched determinedly out into the square. She stood in the square, irresolute. She felt fine. But why not prove Richard wrong? Agatha had a private doctor, but it was Saturday. Nonetheless, she had his home phone number.

She phoned him and he said he could see her. Hoping for reassurance, her face fell when he said she’d better get the hip x-rayed. Agatha said she wanted to go private, no longer in her worry prepared to wait for the slow-grinding machinery of the National Health Service. He phoned the Cheltenham and Nuffield Hospital and booked her for an appointment with a specialist for Monday evening.

“Where on earth have you been, sweetie?” demanded Roy.

“I had a massage and looked around the shops,” lied Agatha.

“Well, you’ve missed all the excitement. It’s on the news. Mabel Smedley’s escaped.”

“What? From a Spanish jail? How did she do that?”

“She seemed to be having a heart attack and then fell unconscious. They took her to a hospital. The ambulance had to stop for some horrendous crash in front of them on the road there. The ambulance driver and guard got out because to all intents and purposes Mabel was unconscious. She removed all the straps from the stretcher and simply got out and walked away.”

“What if she comes after me?” said Agatha, her eyes glowing.

“Aggie, you almost look as if you wish she could.”

“Don’t be silly.”

But for one moment Agatha had envisaged herself catching Mabel and all the circus of publicity coming back to surround her in a warm starry coat that kept the realities of pedestrian life and possible arthritis at bay.

“Put the television on again,” she said.

Roy switched on the television set to a twenty-four-hour news channel.

They sat patiently watching trouble in Iraq, an earthquake in Japan, the latest iniquities of the National Health Service, and then there was a news flash. “Mabel Smedley, the British woman wanted for three murders, has just been rearrested by Spanish police. A Spanish police spokesman said she had ordered a drink in a bar and when she walked out without paying for it, the bartender chased her down the street, shouting and yelling. A traffic policeman on duty arrested her. More later.”

“I think she wasn’t very cunning after all,” said Agatha. “I think all the murders were done on impulse, fuelled by sick jealousy, or maybe, in the case of her husband, pure rage. Let’s keep watching.”

An hour later, Roy said crossly, “Agatha, it’s the same thing over and over again. You’re not a very good hostess. Let’s go and see Mrs. Bloxby. Have you seen her since you got back?”

“No. How awful. Everything’s been so busy. Let’s go now.”

Mrs. Bloxby was delighted to see them and demanded to know all the details. “I can hardly believe Mrs. Smedley capable of such violence and evil,” said Mrs. Bloxby when Agatha had finished. “Jealousy really must have turned her mind. You will surely miss that young man, Harry Beam, when he goes to university.”

“I’m going to try to persuade him to stay. Patrick is already looking for another detective for me. We’re actually short-staffed.”

“Jessica’s parents must be relieved that the murderer has been caught. What about Joyce? Are her parents alive?”

“It turns out her father was a respectable accountant. Dead these past three years. Her mother is in care in Bath. She has Alzheimer’s. Joyce invented a rich father to explain why she was able to rent a whole house.”

“The thing that troubles me,” said the vicar’s wife, “is that I look around our ladies when we meet at the ladies’ society and I begin to wonder what strange passions are lurking behind those genteel breasts. I mean, Mrs. Smedley was so admired for her good works and for her gentle manner. Who could ever have guessed she would turn violent? Love is a strange thing and can twist people in so many ways.”

Agatha suddenly thought again of her ex-husband, James Lacey. Did he ever think of her? Would he ever come back into her life? And if he ever did, would he find she had turned into some old crock riddled with arthritis? She had been a far from perfect wife, but he had behaved badly towards her and probably never realized it. Most men were protected from admitting their mistakes by a sort of justified selfishness.

Agatha spent a pleasant weekend with Roy and plunged back into work on the Monday, but always thinking of her appointment at the hospital in the evening.

She decided that she would need to employ more than one extra detective. They could not all keep on working in the evenings as well as the days.

At last, she drove reluctantly to the Nuffield Hospital, feeling obscurely guilty at the courteous reception and thinking of all the unfortunate people who could not afford private medicine. She filled in the forms.

“Don’t you have health insurance?” asked the receptionist. Agatha shook her head. She had always believed herself to be immortal.

“Go through to X-ray, along there on the left,” said the receptionist. “The specialist will see you after he receives the X-rays.”

Agatha went along to the X-ray department, took off her clothes and put on the gown allocated to her. Then her hips and legs were x-rayed and she was told to get dressed and wait. After a short time, the folder of large X-rays was handed to her and she was told to go back out to the reception area and wait again.

Agatha slid the X-rays out and squinted at them, holding them up to the light, but she could not make out anything.

A nurse approached her and took the X-rays away from her. “Mr. McSporran will see you now. Follow me,” she said.

“Are you sure that’s his name? Sounds like a Scottish music hall joke.”

“McSporran is a good old Scottish name. Please don’t make any jokes about it. He does get tired of them.”

Mr. McSporran was a small, neat man. He put Agatha’s X-rays up on a screen.

“Uh-uh!” he murmured.

“What?” demanded Agatha nervously.

“You will see quite clearly that you have arthritis in your right hip. It is not terribly advanced, but I would advise you to make an appointment for a hip operation. The longer you leave it, the less successful the operation will be.”

“I’m too busy at the moment to take time off,” said Agatha.

“As I said, it is important you do not leave it too long. We can make arrangements to give you an injection in the hip as a temporary measure. If you are lucky, the injection will last six months.”

Agatha felt she had just received a stay of execution. “I’ll have it now.”

“It doesn’t work like that. You will need to make an appointment. You are put under a general anaesthetic. It only takes one day. I would suggest also that you have a bone scan.” He opened his diary. “We can do the hip injection for you on the twenty-fifth. That’s in two weeks’ time. You will need to be here at seven-thirty in the morning and do not eat or drink anything after ten o’clock the evening before.

“All right,” said Agatha bleakly.

“Now lie down and let me examine you. Remove your trousers.”

Agatha suffered her leg being pulled this way and that.

“Right,” he said when he had finished. “Call at the X-ray desk on your road out and make an appointment for a bone scan.”

Agatha was just leaving the hospital when her mobile phone rang. It was Charles. “Have you eaten?”

“No, I’m in Cheltenham.”

“I’ll take you for dinner. I’ll meet you in the square in Mircester. How long will you be?”

“The traffic should have thinned out. About three quarters of an hour.”

“See you then.”

“Why were you in Cheltenham?” asked Charles when they were seated in an Italian restaurant.

“Working on a case,” said Agatha, who had no intention of telling Charles about her arthritis. So ageing.

“You’ve been having a lot of excitement.”

“You could have been in on it, Charles, if you hadn’t gone scuttling off. How’s it going?”

“Turns out she was engaged and was just using me for a bit of a fling.”

“Poor you.”

“Yes, poor me. Do you ever worry about getting old on your own, Agatha?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Sometimes I think it would be awful to sink into decrepitude on my own.”

“You’re hardly on your own, Charles. You’ve got your aunt and Gustav.”

“My aunt can’t last forever and Gustav is hardly the sort of sympathetic type to soothe the fevered brow. Still, there’s always hope. Lots of pretty girls out there.”

Agatha obscurely felt she was being dismissed because of her age. Charles was in his forties, but she was only in her fifties. And yet men in their forties could still hope to wed some young miss.

When the meal was over, she hoped Charles would volunteer to stay with her because she did not want to go back to an empty house, but he showed no signs of wanting to. Agatha felt too demoralized to ask him.

She went home alone and checked her phone for messages. There was one from Roy thanking her for the weekend, but the next one made her heart soar. It was Freddy.

“How’s my heroine?” he said. “I’ll call you at your office tomorrow.”

Agatha’s black mood lifted. Somebody loved her!

The next day in the office, she jumped whenever the phone rang, waiting for Freddy to call. By late afternoon, she had almost given up hope and was tired of making excuses not to leave the office when he did call. “What about dinner tonight?” he said.

“At what time?”

“I’ll pick you up at your cottage at eight.”

Without making any more excuses, Agatha left the office and went straight to the nearest hairdresser’s. Then, with her hair newly done, she hurried off home to begin elaborate preparations for the evening ahead.

Freddy arrived promptly at eight o’clock and took her to a new restaurant in Moreton-in-Marsh.

Had Agatha not been so elated to be in his company, she would certainly have complained about the meal. Freddy recommended the rolled, stuffed pork belly. When it was served, Agatha found herself staring down at what looked like one small brown turd surrounded by acres of empty plate. It was served with a tiny bowl of mixed salad. But there was handsome Freddy across the table, plying her with questions about the murders and exclaiming in a flattering way at what he described as her brilliant intuition.

And, oh, the way he looked into her eyes and the way his hand brushed hers as he reached across to fill her wine glass.

They were sitting at a table in the bay of a window. It had started to rain again, but for once Agatha was oblivious to the miseries of the dreary weather.

“Do you know,” breathed Freddy, “I fancy you something rotten, old girl.”

He should have left the “old” out. Agatha turned away and stared out of the window just in time to see Charles in his car stopping at the pedestrian crossing lights outside the restaurant. He gave her a startled look. The lights changed to green, a car behind him honked and Charles moved on.

Agatha realized Freddy was waiting for some sort of reply, but found she couldn’t think of anything that might be suitable come on.

So instead she asked, “How was South Africa?”

“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Met friends. That sort of thing.”

The door of the restaurant opened and Charles breezed in. “Mind if I join you?”

“You weren’t invited,” snapped Agatha.

“And how are you, Freddy?” asked Charles, ignoring the fact that Agatha was glaring at him.

“Fine,” mumbled Freddy.

“Bring the wife and kids back with you?”

“They’re still there.”

Agatha could hardly believe what Charles was saying.

“When are they joining you?” pursued Charles.

“Next week.”

“Jolly good. Well, I better not interrupt your meal. I’ll phone you tomorrow, Agatha.”

“Wait!” Agatha got to her feet. “I’m coming with you. Give me a lift home. I want to get away from this bastard as quickly as possible.”

“I thought you knew I was married,” said Freddy.

“How was I to know that when you didn’t tell me, and you told that copper right in my kitchen that you weren’t married.”

“You’re a rat, Freddy,” said Charles. “Come along, Agatha.”

“You should have told me,” said Agatha for the umpteenth time when they were both back in Agatha’s cottage.

“And you should have told me he had been dating you. How many times do I have to say it?” protested Charles.

“Well, it’s all very depressing. I was feeling low as it was. I mean, all that publicity was rather exhilarating, but it suddenly just died away. Midlands TV wanted me for another interview and they cancelled.”

“It may have been something to do with Detective Inspector Wilkes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He gave a rather unflattering interview about you in the Guardian”

“When?”

“I forget exactly when, but as it happens I’ve got a copy of the paper in my car. Gustav got it for me.”

“If it was unflattering, then he would. Fetch it for me.”

Charles went out and came back with a crumpled copy of the Guardian.

Agatha riffled through it until she came to the features page. There was a big headline: THE INSPECTOR AND THE LUCKY AMATEUR. She began to read.

Wilkes had been very amusing about Agatha’s detective abilities. “I think Mrs. Raisin stumbled on where the murderers were because they were amateurs and she is an amateur,” he had said. “She bumbles around my cases like some sort of bumble bee, occasionally, by sheer luck, crashing into the truth. We are grateful to her, of course, but Interpol were on it and they would have been caught eventually.” There was a lot more of the same.

“This is character assassination,” said Agatha. “I’ll sue him.”

“I wouldn’t do that. Not if you intend to keep running a detective agency. You sue him and you’ll soon have the police working against you at every turn.”

“You should have told me,” protested Agatha. “I could have countered this by reminding everyone it was I who found Jessica’s body, not to mention tracking that pair to Spain.”

“The paper was old by the time Gustav gave it to me. Anyway,” said Charles, “you never mentioned me once in any of your interviews.”

“Because you had beetled off chasing a bit of skirt.”

“That’s it,” said Charles. “I’m off. Phone me when you’re in a better temper.”

Agatha arrived at the office the next morning to find them all waiting for her. “What’s this?” she asked wearily. “A strike?”

“We just wanted to be sure that you want to continue with this agency,” said Patrick. “You didn’t bother doing any work yesterday and you took the whole weekend off.”

“Of course I am continuing,” said Agatha. “I’ve just been tired, that’s all. Mrs. Freedman, let’s go through the work for today.”

In order to show enthusiasm, Agatha took on one of the nastier cases, which was following a man whose wife thought he was being unfaithful and wanted grounds for a divorce.

He owned a delicatessen in Mircester. The shop was a popular one. Agatha found a parking place across the road. Phil was beside her with his camera.

Customers came and went. Then the shop was closed for an hour at lunchtime. Their quarry went to a local restaurant but ate on his own.

Back to watching the shop as the hours dragged on until closing time. His two assistants left and then he came out and locked up the shop. He stood outside, looking up and down the street.

“He’s waiting for someone,” said Agatha, crouching down. “Get ready with the camera. Thank God for the light evenings. Wouldn’t want him to be alerted with a flash.”

A youngish man came along the street and hailed the owner. They walked off together.

“Today was a waste of time,” said Phil.

“No, get out the car and follow them,” said Agatha. “I’ve got an idea.”

They hurried after them at a discreet distance. They stopped outside a club called the Green Parrot.

“Thought so,” said Agatha. “Bang off a couple of pictures and let’s get out of here.”

Phil did as he was told, getting two good shots before the two men walked into the club, their arms around each other’s shoulders.

“So why did I have to take photographs?” asked Phil. “Was that his illegitimate son, or what?”

“The Green Parrot is Mircester’s only gay club. Sometimes I hate this job. I feel grubby. I’ll drive you back to your car, Phil. You can go home now and print up those photos. I just want to look at the books.”

After she had left Phil, Agatha slumped down in Mrs. Freedman’s chair and stared at the blank computer screen.

She could not remember ever before feeling so old or so lonely. Early fifties surely wasn’t old these days. But the fact that she had arthritis had shaken her badly. She envisaged herself crumbling into old age all on her own, no one to look after her, no one to share the pain.

There was a tentative knock at the office door. Agatha was about to shout, “We’re closed. Go away,” but reflected that business was business and a possible new case might take her mind off her misery.

She opened the door and stared up at the tall figure standing there, smiling down at her.

“Hullo, Agatha,” said James Lacey.

Keep reading for an excerpt from

the next Agatha Raisin mysrery

LOVE, LIES AND LIQUOR

Coming soon from St. Martins/Minotaur Paperbacks!

JAMES Lacey, Agatha Raisin’s ex-husband with whom she was still in love, had come back into her life. He had moved into his old cottage next door to Agatha’s.

But although he seemed interested in Agatha’s work at her detective agency, not a glint of love lightened his blue eyes. Agatha dressed more carefully than she had done in ages and spent a fortune at the beauticians, but to no avail. This was the way, she thought sadly, that things had been before. She felt as if some cruel hand had wound the clock of time backwards.

Just when Agatha was about to give up, James called on her and said friends of his had moved into Ancombe and had invited them both to dinner. His host, he said, was a Mr. David Hewitt who was retired from the Ministry of Defence. His wife was called Jill.

Delighted to be invited as a couple, Agatha set out with James from their cottages in the village of Carsely in the English Cotswolds to drive the short distance to Ancombe.

The lilac blossom was out in its full glory. Wisteria and clematis trailed down the walls of honey-coloured cottages and hawthorn, the fairy tree, sent out a heady sweet smell in the evening air.

Agatha experienced a qualm of nervousness as she drove them towards Ancombe. She had made a few visits to James in his cottage, but they were always brief. James was always occupied with something and seemed relieved when she left. Agatha planned to make the most of this outing. She was dressed in a biscuit-coloured suit with a lemon-coloured blouse and highheeled sandals. Her brown hair gleamed and shone.

James was wearing a tweed sports jacket and flannels. “Am I overdressed?” asked Agatha.

One blue eye swivelled in her direction. “No, you look fine.”

The Hewitts lived in a bungalow called Merrydown. As James drove up the short gravelled drive, Agatha could smell something cooking on charcoal. “It’s not a barbecue?” she asked.

“I believe it is. Here we are.”

“James, if you had told me it was a barbecue, I would have dressed more suitably.”

“Don’t nag,” said James mildly, getting out of the car.

Agatha detested barbecues. Barbecues were for Americans, Australians and Polynesians, or any of those other people with a good climate. The English, from her experience, delighted in undercooked meat served off paper plates in an insect-ridden garden.

James rang the doorbell. The door was answered by a small woman with pinched little features and pale grey eyes. Her grey hair was dressed in girlish curls. She was wearing a print frock and low-heeled sandals.

“James, darling!” She stretched up and enfolded him in an embrace. “And who is this?”

“Don’t you remember, I was told to bring my ex-wife along. This is Agatha Raisin. Agatha, Jill.”

Jill linked her arm in James’s, ignoring Agatha. “Come along. We’re all in the garden.” Agatha trailed after them. She wanted to go home.

Various people were standing around the garden, drinking some sort of fruit cup. Agatha, who felt in need of a strong gin and tonic, wanted more than ever to flee.

She was introduced to her host, who was cooking dead things on the barbecue. He was wearing a joke apron portraying a basque and fishnet stockings. James was taken round and introduced to the other guests, while Agatha stood on a flagged patio, teetering on her high heels.

Agatha sighed and sank down into a garden chair. She opened her handbag and took out her cigarettes and lighter and lit a cigarette.

“Do you mind awfully?” Her host stood in front of her, brandishing a knife.

“What?”

“This is a smoke-free zone.”

Agatha leaned round him and stared at the barbecue. Black smoke was beginning to pour out from something on the top. “Then you’d better get a fire extinguisher,” said Agatha. “Your food is burning.”

He let out a squawk of alarm and rushed back to the barbecue. Agatha blew a perfect smoke ring. She felt her nervousness evaporating. She did not care what James thought. Jill was a dreadful hostess, and worse than that, she seemed to have a thing about James. So Agatha sat placidly, smoking and dreaming of the moment when the evening would be over.

There was one sign of relief. A table was carried out into the garden and chairs set about it. She had dreaded having to stand on the grass in her spindly heels, eating off a paper plate.

Jill had reluctantly let go of James’s arm and gone into the house. She reappeared with two of the women guests carrying wine bottles and glasses. “Everyone to the table,” shouted David.

Agatha crushed out her cigarette on the patio stones and put the stub in her handbag. By the time she had heaved herself out of her chair, it was to find that James was seated next to Jill and another woman and she was left to sit next to a florid-faced man who gave her a goggling stare and then turned to chat to the woman on his other side.

David put a plate of blackened charred things in front of Agatha. She helped herself to a glass of wine. The conversation became general, everyone talking about people Agatha did not know.

Oh, well, may as well eat, thought Agatha. She sliced a piece of what appeared to be chicken. Blood oozed out onto her plate.

James was laughing at something Jill was saying. He had not once looked in her direction. He had abandoned her as soon as they entered the house.

Suddenly a thought hit Agatha, a flash of the blindingly obvious. I do not need to stay here. These people are rude and James is a disgrace. She rose and went into the house. “Second door on your left,” Jill shouted after her, assuming Agatha wanted to go to the toilet.

Agatha went straight through the house and outside. She got into her car and drove off. Let James find his own way home.

When she reached her cottage, she let herself in, went through to the kitchen and kicked off her sandals. Her cats circled her legs in welcome. “I’ve had a God awful time,” she told them. “James has finally been and gone and done it. I’ve grown up at last. I don’t care if I never see him again.”

“What an odd woman!” Jill was exclaiming. “To go off like that without a word.”

“Well, you did rather cut her dead,” said James uneasily. “I mean, she was left on her own, not knowing anyone.”

“But one doesn’t introduce people at parties anymore.”

“You introduced me.”

“Oh, James, sweetie. Don’t go on. Such weird behaviour.” But the evening for James was mined. He now saw these people through Agatha Raisin’s small bearlike eyes.

“I’d better go and see if she’s all right,” he said, getting to his feet.

“I’ll drive you,” said Jill.

“No, please don’t. It would be rude of you to leave your guests. I’ll phone for a taxi.”

James rang Agatha’s doorbell, but she did not answer. He tried phoning but got no reply. He left a message for her to call back, but she did not.

He shrugged. Agatha would come around. She always did.

But to his amazement, the days grew into weeks and Agatha continued to be chilly towards him. She turned down invitations to dinner, saying she was “too busy.” He had met Patrick Mulligan one, day in the village stores. Patrick worked for Agatha and he told James they were going through a quiet period.

Fuelled by jealousy, James did not pause to think whether he really wanted the often-infuriating Agatha back in his life. He watched and waited until he saw Agatha leaving her cottage on foot. He shot out of his own door to waylay her.

“Hullo, James,” said Agatha, her small eyes like two pebbles. “I’m just going down to the village stores.”

“I’ll walk with you. I have a proposition to make.”

“This is so sudden,” said Agatha cynically.

“Stop walking so quickly. I feel we got off to a bad start. It really was quite a dreadful barbecue. So I have a suggestion to make. If you’re not too busy at the office, we could take a holiday together.”

Agatha’s heart began to thump and she stopped dead under the shade of a lilac tree.

“I thought I would surprise you and take you off somewhere special that was once very dear to me. You see, I may have told you I’ve given up writing military history. I now write travel books.”

“Where did you think of?” asked Agatha, visions of Pacific islands and Italian villages racing through her brain.

“Ah, it is going to be a surprise.”

Agatha hesitated. But then she knew if she refused, she would never forgive herself. “All right. What clothes should I take?”

“Whatever you usually take on holiday.”

“And when would we leave?”

“As soon as possible. Say, the end of next week?”

“Fine. Where are you going?”

“Back home to make some phone calls.”

Inside her cottage, Agatha looked at the phone and then decided she must simply communicate such marvellous news to her friend, Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, in person. She let her cats out into the garden and then hurried off to the vicarage.

With her grey hair and gentle face, Mrs. Bloxby always acted like a sort of balm on the turmoil of Agatha’s feelings.

“Come in, Mrs. Raisin,” she said. “You are all flushed.”

Both Agatha and Mrs. Bloxby were members of the Carsely Ladies Society and it was an old-fashioned tradition among the members that only second names should be used.

“We’ll sit in the garden,” said Mrs. Bloxby, leading the way. “Such a glorious day. Coffee?”

“No, don’t bother.” Agatha sat down in a garden chair and Mrs. Bloxby took the seat opposite her. Please let it not be anything to do with James, prayed Mrs. Bloxby. I do so hope she’s got over that.

“It’s James!” exclaimed Agatha, and Mrs. Bloxby’s heart sank.

“I thought you were never going to have anything to do with him again.”

“Oh, it was because of that terrible party that I told you about. Well, just listen to this. He is arranging to take me on holiday.”

“Where?”

“It’s to be a surprise.”

“Is that such a good idea? It might be somewhere you’ll hate.”

“He’s a travel writer now and travel writers don’t write about dreary places. I must lose weight if I’m going to look good on the beach.”

“But how do you know you are going to the beach?”

Agatha began to feel cross. “Look, he obviously wants to make it a romantic holiday. You’re a bit depressing about all this.”

Mrs. Bloxby sighed. “Of course I hope you will have a wonderful time. It’s just…”

“What?” snapped Agatha.

“It’s just that James has always behaved like a confirmed bachelor and he can be quite self-centred. This holiday will be what he wants, not what he would think you would like.”

Agatha rose angrily to her feet. “Well, sage of the ages, I’m off to do some shopping.”

“Don’t be angry with me,” pleaded Mrs. Bloxby. “I most desperately don’t want to see you get hurt again.” But the slamming of the garden door was her only reply.

Agatha threw herself into a fever of shopping: new swimsuit, filmy evening dress, beach clothes and beach bag. In her fantasies, James and she stood on the terrace of a hotel, looking out at the moonlight on the Mediterranean. He took her in his arms, his voice husky with desire and he said, “I’ve always loved you.”

Patrick Mulligan, Phil Marshall, and Harry Beam all assured her they could easily cope in her absence.

When the great day of departure arrived, she could hear James tooting angrily on the car horn as she packed and repacked. At last, heaving a suitcase that was so heavy it felt as if it had an anvil in it, she emerged from her cottage. The lover of her fantasies fled, to be replaced by the very real and present James Lacey. He lifted her suitcase into the boot and said, “I thought you were going to be in there all day.”

“Well, here I am,” said Agatha brightly.

Agatha had been unable to sleep the previous night because of excitement. Shortly after they had driven off, she fell into a heavy sleep. After two hours, she awoke with a start. Rain was smearing the windscreen. The scenery seemed to consist of factories.

“Are we at the airport yet?” she asked.

“We’re not going to the airport. Shut up, Agatha. This is supposed to be a surprise.”

Must be going to take the ferry, thought Agatha. Oh, how marvellous it would be to get out of dreary grey England and into the foreign sunshine. The factories and then some villas gave way to rain-swept countryside, where wet sheep huddled in the shelter of dry-stone walls. A kestrel sailed overhead like a harbinger of doom.

“Where are we?” asked Agatha.

“Sussex.”

“Which Channel ferry runs from Sussex?”

“Don’t spoil the surprise, Agatha, by asking questions.”

With rising apprehension, Agatha watched the miles of rainsoaked countryside go by. Were they going to Brighton? Now, that would be really unoriginal.

James drove along a cliff road, then turned off. After two miles, he pulled into the side of the road in front of a sign that said Snoth-on-Sea.

“This is the surprise,” he said portentously. “This is one of the last unspoilt seaside resorts in Britain. I used to come here as a boy with my parents. Beautiful place. You’ll love it.”

Agatha was stricken into silence, thinking of all the light clothes and beach wear and all the bottles of sun-tan lotion, face creams and make-up that were weighing down her suitcase. She tried to get Mrs. Bloxby’s gentle voice out of her head. “This holiday will be what he wants, not what he would think you would like.”

James drove slowly down into the town, prepared to savour every moment. On the outskirts, he received his first shock. There was a large housing estate—a grubby, depressed-looking housing estate. With rising anxiety, he motored on into the town. He had booked them rooms at the Palace Hotel, which he remembered as an endearingly grand Edwardian building facing the sea and the pier. Oh, that wonderful theatre at the end of the pier where his parents had taken him with his sister to watch vaudeville shows.

As he headed for the sea front, he saw that all the little shops that used to sell things like ice cream and postcards had been replaced by chain stores. The main street that ran parallel to the sea front had been widened and was full of traffic. He longed now to reach the genteel relaxation of the Palace. He edged through a snarl of traffic. On the front, the black and grey sea heaved angrily, sending up plumes of spray. There was the pier, but the part where the theatre had been had fallen into the sea.

He parked in front of the Palace and waited for someone to rush out and take their suitcases. No one appeared. There was a flashing neon sign at the side that said, “ar ark,” two of the necessary letters having rusted away. He drove in. Agatha was ominously silent. He heaved their cases out of the boot and began to trundle them round to the front of the hotel.

Inside, James checked them in. In his youth, the staff had worn smart uniforms. But it was a languid, pallid girl with a nose stud who checked the reservations.

Separate rooms, thought Agatha. I might have known it. There was no porter, so James had to lug the suitcases into the lift. “You’re in room 20,” he said brightly. “Here’s your key.” No modem plastic cards at the Palace. The only relic of the old days lay in the large brass key he handed to Agatha.

She took it from him silently. He unlocked the door for her. “See you downstairs in about—what—an hour?”

“Sure,” said Agatha. She wheeled her case into the room and shut the door on him.

She sat down on the bed and looked around at the dilapidated room. Rain rattled against the window and the wind moaned like a banshee.

Agatha wondered what to do. Common sense told her to ring down for a taxi and get the hell out of Snoth-on-Sea. Fantasy told her that the weather might change and the sun might shine and James and she would get married again.

Fantasy won.

But the one bit of common sense left urged her to get some warm clothes. In the main street, she had noticed a shop which sold country wear. Glad that she had worn a coat for the journey, she went downstairs. At least they had some umbrellas for guests in a stand by the door. She took one and battled against the wind round the comer and into the main street. In the shop, she bought warm trousers and socks, a green Barbour coat and a rain hat. Then she went into a department store next door and bought several pairs of plain white knickers to replace the sexy flimsy things she had brought with her, and a cheap pair of serviceable walking shoes.

She carried her purchases back to the hotel and changed into a sweater and trousers, warm socks and the walking shoes, and went down to the bar.

James was sitting at a table in the comer of the bar, looking out at the heaving sea. Piped music was playing in the bar. Agatha sat down opposite him and said, “I would like a stiff gin and tonic.”

James signalled to a waitress, who took the order with a look on her pasty face as if he had just insulted her. When her drink arrived—no ice and a tired bit of lemon—Agatha took a fortifying swig and opened her mouth to blast him.

But he disarmed her by saying ruefully, “I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I’m sorry. It used to be a magical place for me. It was so quiet and peaceful. This hotel used to be so grand with an orchestra playing in the evenings. Look at it now! Because I came here as a child, I suppose I only remembered the sunny days. I’ll make it up to you. We’ll only stay a couple of days and then we’ll move on somewhere. Go to Dover and take the ferry to France. Something like that.

“I checked the dinner menu. It seems pretty good. We’ll have another drink and go into the dining room. I’m hungry. You?”

Agatha smiled at him fondly. “I would love something to eat.”

The dining room was cavernous and cold. The chandeliers of James’s youth had been replaced by harsh lighting. There were very few guests. A large table at the window was occupied by a family, or what Agatha judged to be a family. A plump woman with dyed blonde hair and a fat face had a harsh grating voice that carried across the dining room. Beside her was a small, crushed-looking man in a suit, collar and tie. He kept fiddling with his tie as if longing to take it off. A young woman dressed in black leather was poking at her food and occasionally talking to a young man with a shaven head and tattoos on the back of his hands. An older man with neat hair and a little Hitler moustache was smiling indulgently all around. His companion was very thin, with flaming red hair and green eye shadow.

The woman with the fat face caught Agatha staring at them and shouted across the dining room, “Hey, you there! Mind yer own business, you silly cow.”

James half rose to his feet, but Agatha was out of her chair and across the room to confront the woman.

“You just shut your stupid face and let me get on with my meal,” hissed Agatha.

“Shove off, you old trout.”

“Screw you,” said Agatha viciously and stalked back to join James.

“Remember Wyckhadden?” asked Agatha. “It was a lovely place compared to this.”

“I would rather forget Wyckhadden,” said James coldly. Agatha blushed. Although she had been working on a murder case there, she had forgotten that James had found her in bed with Charles in Wyckhadden.

They had both ordered lobster bisque to start. It was white, lumpy and tasteless.

“I want a word with you.”

The shaven-headed man was looming over them. “This is mam’s honeymoon and you insulted her.”

“She started it,” protested Agatha.

“Look, just go away,” said James.

“Think you’re the big shot,” sneered shaven head. “Come outside.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Come outside or I’ll shove your face in here.”

James sighed and threw down his napkin and followed shaven-head from the dining room.

“That’s the stuff!” jeered fat face.

“If you harm one hair of his head,” shouted Agatha, “I’ll murder you, you rotten bitch.”

The manager hurried into the dining room. “What’s all this noise? What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” said fat face.

Agatha hurried out of the dining room. James was just coming back into the hotel. “The rain’s stopped,” he said mildly.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not as much as the other fellow.”

They returned to their table. Shaven-head limped in nursing a fat lip. The family at the round table talked in urgent whispers, throwing venomous glances at Agatha and James.

The next course was chicken a la Provencal. It was rubbery chicken covered in tinned tomatoes.

Agatha threw down her fork in disgust. “James, let’s get out of here and find a pub or a fish and chip shop.”

“You wait here,” said James. “I’m going to have a word with the manager first. I’m not a snob, but that family from hell should never have been allowed to stay here. They’re terrorising the other guests.”

“In all the row, I didn’t notice the other guests.”

Agatha turned round. An elderly couple were eating as fast as they could, no doubt wanting to make a quick escape. A young couple with a small child had their heads bent so low over their plates, they looked as if they wished they could disappear into them.

“I’m not staying here with the family from hell,” said Agatha. “I’m coming with you!”